


Sweat

by PUNIFA



Series: The Lord and the Tramp [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, MOSH, PUNK!STRADE, Sweat, YOUNG LESTRADE, Young Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg gets a bit banged up in the mosh pit. Mycroft makes sure he gets home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat

The music was loud. Far too loud. Absolutely, cruelly, _poundingly_ loud. And Mycroft hadn’t even entered the building yet. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, sure that he could smell sweat in the air. He was disgusted by his _own_ sweat, procured from persistent hours at the treadmill his mother had given him at Christmas, and he couldn’t imagine how anybody would willingly subject themselves to a room full of seething bodies coupled with such a clamor.

Still, in spite of his rising headache, he stayed. He had a self-inflicted obligation to attend to. Self-inflicted because Greg’s mother was too polite to ask him to go out of his way making sure her son was alright, and he was too quietly smitten to deny her unasked request. He’d called about the tutoring and she’d explained that the boy had skipped off to a concert. _“He comes home so late, and with all sorts of bruises. Had a fat lip a few weeks ago! I really wish he would stay away from those concerts and settle for the cassettes, but if I try that he’ll just mope for weeks.”_

Mycroft glanced at his watch and sighed. Only just past 11 o clock. From the many enthusiastic recountings he’d received from Greg between math drills, he knew these things could last into the early hours of the morning. If it didn’t let out soon he would have to bribe his driver into ignoring the midnight curfew he was humiliatingly still under.

He needn’t have worried (at least, not about the curfew). The doors to his right banged open and he was assailed by a concentrated plume of body odor, and he grimaced until he caught sight of who was being hauled through the door, dark hair disastrously askew. Greg looked up at the same moment that Mycroft realized who he was, and his eyes (one of which had taken on the color of an eggplant) widened. Mycroft automatically pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, stepping forward, and Greg said something to the man who was supporting him and was released. He stumbled slightly before righting himself with a wince, meeting Mycroft halfway, a week grin on his lips.

Mycroft calmly extended the handkerchief towards Greg, though he was frantically cataloguing the boy’s apparent injuries. Black eye, obviously. Hit to the nose, though the blood on his face had long dried. Something with his ankle that made him lean more on his left.

“Don’t need a babysitter, you know,” Greg said roughly, dabbing at a small cut on his lip. “What’re you doing here?”

“Getting you home.” Mycroft nodded at Greg’s friend, who stared quizzically between them, then slipped back inside when Greg nodded as well.

“My mother put you up to this?”

“Not quite.”

Greg chuckled and made to return the cloth, then glanced at the blood staining its white surface and pocketed it sheepishly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Mycroft remained silent and Greg laughed again, then began to limp towards the parking lot, where the sleek, chauffeured car stood out almost garishly.

Mycroft hurried after him, offering his arm and killing Greg’s imminent protest with a stern look. Together they shuffled towards the car. The driver’s eyebrows shot up under his cap when he took in Greg’s battered appearance, but he made no comment and began to drive once the boys were situated in the back seat.

“She did say you got battered up often,” Mycroft said coolly as he reached beneath the seat for a first aid kit. Greg’s lips quirked, causing fresh blood to bead up.

“She _did._ I knew it.”

“Not quite. I came on my own.” Mycroft fished out the rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab, dampening it. He meant to hand it off to Greg but found himself leaning forward to press it to his lip instead. The boy jumped and hissed but didn’t pull back, allowing Mycroft to clean the cut and continue on to the blood dried beneath his nose. “What happened to your ankle?” He asked softly, setting the swab aside and pulling out a cold compress, snapping it and holding it against Greg’s eye.

“Oh, that. Boot. Steel-toed, I think. S’not broken, though.” Mycroft frowned and bent down, hiking up Greg’s pant leg without waiting to consider that it might be an unwelcome gesture. His eyes widened at the almost fluorescent color of the bruise splotched over Greg’s ankle, extending up onto his shin.

“I don’t need reprimanded,” Greg said quickly. “I’ve had worse.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Mycroft transferred the compress onto the bruise and Greg clenched his teeth, then relaxed as the cold took effect. Mycroft remained there, awkwardly hunched over, keeping the compress in place and trying to stop his eyes from wandering over Greg’s bared calf.

“How long were you gonna wait for, anyway?”

Mycroft glanced up. “Pardon?”

“You couldn’t have known when the show would end. Were you about to wait out there all night just to see me home?”

Blush rose over Mycroft’s cheeks and he looked down again. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You’ve skipped enough of our sessions as it is, I can’t have you incapacitated.”

Greg grinned and brushed his hand over Mycroft’s shoulder as the car pulled to a stop outside his flat. “I promise not to miss the next one, then.”

Mycroft straightened and cleared his throat. “Good. Thank you.”

“D’you mind, er, helping me up the stairs? Leg’s a bit numb.”

Mycroft’s stomach _fluttered_ , and before he could consider how absurd that was he was nodding and slipping out of the car and around to Greg’s side. He looped an arm around his friend’s waist and guided him up the stairs, heart thumping.

His mother greeted them with a gentle scolding towards Greg, and a toss of her arms around Mycroft’s shoulders accompanied by a showering of thanks.

“Next Thursday. I won’t bail out this time,” Greg reminded him cheerfully before his mother whisked him inside, demanding to know everywhere he was hurt.

As he made his way back to the car Mycroft wasn’t thinking about his missed curfew (it was 12:14. His mother would be up and waiting). Instead he was chewing on the thought that he really didn’t mind Greg’s sweat.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fantastically lovely Geniusbee over on tumblr, who wanted young punk!strade getting helped home from a particularly brutal mosh pit.


End file.
